Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Enthralled [threesome w Thomas Dorset & OC female]

Benedict smells it long before he ever sees them.

Fresh blood, sweet young bodies in the flushes of arousal; it makes him hungry in every sense of the word. The almost painful need to feast and fuck. He inhales deep, lewdly, letting the tempting scents fill his being. He pulls on his cloak and goes out to find them.

—

Ana Dorset.

She practices the name, sitting at the vanity table of their rooms at the inn, feeling cosy in the soft candlelight glow as the autumnal wind howls portentously beyond the window. The quill scratches the paper as she loops the letters, learning the structure of her new name as it flows under her hand.

"What are you doing, my love?" Thomas rounds behind her, returning to their rooms with steaming hot tea as promised.

"I am practising my new name," she replies proudly, twisting to look up at her husband of merely two days as he places aside the tea tray, squeezing her shoulders lightly.

"Oh, I see, that is... well, that is wonderful," his cadence wavering, embarrassed at how something as simple as his new wife's desire to write could make him burn for her physically. His name is staring back at him in skilled, glistening, dark, looped strokes, causing a primal wash of possession. His fingers flex instinctually, mapping her collarbone, her soft flesh too irresistible under his fingertips. He rocks his body into her back, and she makes the most delightful faint squeak.

"Husband," she drawls, and their eyes meet in the vanity mirror. "Are you aroused?" Her question isn't judgemental; it's curiosity, and he realises, as she leans her spine into his burgeoning erection, desire.

"Yes, darling wife. You have my name. It is.... Appealing," he answers honestly, a touch winded, his fingers trailing lower over her warm skin onto the swell of her breast.

Her eyes flash in the reflection, and then suddenly, she spins around on the stool and buries her face into his trousers, nuzzling his hardness. His growl is deep and wracked. So utterly undone by how much his new wife is forthright with her intentions.

She looks up at him, all fluttering eyelids and succulent lips as her dainty fingers pluck open his trousers determinedly and, pushing down his underwear, wraps her hands around the back of his thighs to draw him even closer, then immediately encases his cock in her warm, wet mouth.

He groans to the ceiling, disbelieving in his luck.

—

Benedict finds himself outside the quaint country inn barely a quarter mile from his country home. No wonder he could smell it so strong.

As he stares up at a mullioned window, russet leaves swirling around his feet on this cold, crisp night, he sees the glowing candlelight signifying the room's occupation. Indeed, it is the only one lit as such on the first floor. He surmises they are likely newlyweds, perhaps passing through the area on their honeymoon—the first ones who have done so since he was turned a few months back.

While he has trained himself on the scent of the people in the proximal area and taught himself they are not food, he is powerless to resist this. Them. From scent alone, they are in their twenties, and right now, they are engaging in something carnal. He can smell ripe juices swirling in the air along with the thronging of their hearts, blood coursing. It makes his cock strain painfully against the wool of his britches.

He never used to be like this—a creature of such base instinct. Yes, when human, he had his fair share of lovers of all persuasions, but it had been an occasional bacchanalian indulgence. Now. Now, he can barely contain himself. His tongue licks around the point of his fang, tasting the air, knowing without a doubt they will be under his thrall within moments of meeting and lost in a temporary reverie of how he will enjoy them.